


I'm Doing Everything All Wrong

by ImWithEnjolras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImWithEnjolras/pseuds/ImWithEnjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am Michel Enjolras.”  He inhaled one last time, holding the red flag high. “I am you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've decided to post this story of mine here as imagineagreatadventure from tumblr has suggested. Hopefully you like it. :)

“Vive la France!” Enjolras exclaimed, bullets flying by him. He couldn’t get distracted now. Regardless of his sweaty hands and falling comrades – there was a higher calling now.

_Let them see the oppressed. Let them see our blood._

Oh how angry he was with himself when this occurred to him. _What kind of people occupies the seats of the government? Those people who let the poor suffer and allow their own bellies to grow larger by the day?_

“How dare they!” He picked up the loaded gun from behind him and fired again, shutting his eyes as his shot hit its mark. “How can they turn a blind eye to their fellow man!” 

“Canons!” Enjolras paled, feeling Combeferre’s desperate grip on his arm. He steeled himself for the onslaught, glancing briefly at Marius. 

“Make them pay through the nose!” 

“Make them bleed while we can!” Enjolras nodded at Courfeyrac, finding tears trailing down his cheeks. He turned again and took aim. 

“To the right!” 

“Fire!” Enjolras felt the gun recoil into his shoulder and threw it down to be reloaded. He couldn’t watch as soldiers fell. He went to pick up the rifle that was being handed to him. He wasn’t watching; he wasn’t looking. His mind was a mess. All the plans he had made, all the preparation was gone. Instead he was stuck in a whirlwind of frantic thoughts and desperate motions. Then he felt the earth shake beneath his feet and parts of the barricade shatter beneath him. 

Enjolras fell back, landing hard on the cobblestones, his breath pushed forcibly from his lungs. He heard the groans of his comrades and he slowly pushed himself up. He quickly went to Combeferre and helped his friend stand up. “Quick, to the café!” 

Only four of them remained; he spied Marius lying unconscious and vulnerable just a few feet from the barricade. Enjolras could do nothing for him now. There was nothing anyone could do for them now. No one would open their doors to the students. The people did not stand up; the people did not come. He hurried his remaining friends to the café. They climbed up the stairs, tripping over their feet, feeling light headed from their wounds. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

They heard the soldiers clambering into the first floor of the café and then there was an eerie silence. Enjolras held his breath, waiting and within moments the rest of his comrades fell, the National Guard having shot under their feet. He was alone. 

Enjolras backed up towards the windows, the remnants of the barricade in his line of sight. He heard the soldiers make their way up the stairs and he faced them without fear. One soldier, a sergeant he figured from his decorated uniform, stepped forward to address the revolutionary. 

He heard a scuffle going on behind the other soldiers and Grantaire shoved his way through the armed men. The drunk stumbled his way to Enjolras, not taking his eyes off of his friend. Saying nothing, Enjolras held his right hand out to the human wine-cask and Grantaire gripped it with his right hand. A final pact is what it was. _Today we die as friends. Today we die as martyrs._ Neither said a word, but one look was all they needed. 

He looked again to the sergeant whose rifle was aimed at his chest. Inhale. Exhale. This was it, then. Enjolras’ lips tilted into an almost arrogant smirk. 

“Who are you?” said the man. He saw Grantaire shift to stand straight beside him on his left. 

“I am Michel Enjolras.” He stared intently at the man. “I am for the poor.” He threw down his gun, holding back his tears for his fallen friends. “If you are going to kill me, look me in the eye and don’t look away when you do so.” He inhaled one last time, holding the red flag high. “I am you.” 

And then it was so dark. 

_So this is death._

Enjolras was surprised. Death was dark, but there was no pain. Death was dark, but it was not cold. How confusing. _Oh nothing the matter. I died for the cause. It was – no! Is! It is a good cause! No one should be stepped upon; not when we are equal._

Then suddenly he was awake. 

He squinted against the light that met his eyes. His eyesight slowly adjusted to the minimal light and he found himself in a room with white walls. He was looking up at a dimly lit, white ceiling. He struggled to pick himself up. When Enjolras looked down on himself, he was wearing a thin, peculiar, white fabric. He shifted his gaze from side to side, his eyes landing on odd, whirring machines, weird buttons on the bed he laid on, and finally, a person – a girl – sitting asleep in a chaise by the bed. He looked on in confusion, reaching out to shake the young girl awake. As soon as he had placed a tentative hand on the girl’s knee, she jolted awake. She rubbed her eyes momentarily before staring at him in both awe and disbelief. 

“Oh! Lucien! Maman!” The young girl ran out of the room, quickly returning with a much older woman at her side. “He’s awake!” 

The older woman said nothing, but stared at Enjolras with tears in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth and after a moment, Enjolras was quickly held within the woman’s embrace. He saw the younger girl over the woman’s shoulder look over to a blonde haired man that had just entered the room. 

“Oh my Lucien! My darling Lucien!” Enjolras could feel the woman’s tears soak through the fabric on his shoulder. After a few moments, Enjolras slowly and gently disentangled himself from the woman’s hold. 

Michel Enjolras looked at the trio, confused. “Excusez-moi.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “But who is Lucien?” 

_Lucien. I am Lucien Favreau. That’s right. My name is Lucien. Not Michel. Not Michel Enjolras._

I am Lucien, not Michel. This had become his mantra – his daily reminder – that all things Enjolras were nothing but his imagination. 

Lucien Favreau was the eldest son of Raphael and Angeline Favreau. He was, at the moment, eighteen years old – a young high school student at a particularly prestigious school in Paris. He had a sister named Julienne who was younger than him by two years. He was, apparently, a smart boy. He was lined up to graduate from his school and fly off to medical school in London by the end of the year; all of this despite the fact that he was, indeed, quite out of it for the most part. One year ago, the family had gotten into a severe car crash – this he remembered. He remembered the pain as plain as day for he had taken the brunt of the force of the incoming car. This accident rendered him unconscious and he had been stuck in a coma for eight months. 

Lucien had spent eight months constructing a life for himself in 19th century France as Michel Enjolras. When he finally woke up, he was no longer Michel. No longer was he the charmingly terrible leader of the Les Amis nor was he spearheading a revolution for the downtrodden. He was not a young man of twenty-three fighting for and inspiring those less fortunate. Instead, he was Lucien; surrounded by family who loved him and friends who cared. 

The doctors had said he would be fine, physically. But his mental state was another matter. Michel – no, Lucien – was not, apparently, going to simply accept this fact. He was not going to accept the fate that had been dealt to him. He was Michel Enjolras! At least, in his mind he was that man. Lucien questioned his friends and family daily on his life eight months prior and the memories eventually came back. One by one or sometimes three at a time, they came back leaving him dizzy and often confused. 

In reality, Lucien did not forget anything. He remembered his studies, and he remembered the machines. Computers, cars, cell phones, everything he remembered. He was in a place where he knew what everything was, but he felt so out of place at the same time. His memories were often mixed with his imagined French reality, but he was a smart boy and eventually sifted through what was 21st century and what was 19th. 

It was odd and disconcerting for him to be ‘returning’ to this life. He had a bit of a tough time separating who he was as Lucien and who he pretended to be as Michel. He did not look quite so different from who he was as Michel Enjolras, if only looking like the darker version of that self. Where Michel was blonde, Lucien had dark hair. Michel was quite pale – like marble, he thought ruefully – Lucien had a slight golden tone. Lucien did, however, possess the deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, and strong jaw line that he had grown accustomed to as Michel. 

He was still equally as stubborn as Michel. He was equally as passionate as Michel. He was a student intent on learning like Michel except he was now eighteen again and actually not Michel Enjolras. 

_Enough. Do not think of that. I am Lucien – not Michel._

But how difficult it was. Here he was – in Paris of all places! Everywhere he looked the Michel inside of him would jump and grin. Perhaps it was not perfect, but democracy was in place. Rights for every man, woman, and child as the western societal norm! He frowned to himself in thought. There was always this burning in his heart when it came to the rights – the politics – of man, but now it was just a dull ache. In its place stood a song, a song that called – begged – him to aid the helpless. He spent many nights in his room at his parents’ house in contemplation of that very song. Sometimes it pounded in his ears and other times it warmed his thoughts. 

_Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men!_

He had considered politics, but he realized it was something too polluted – too dirty – and too unworthy of his young life now. He considered becoming a lawyer, but it didn’t sit quite as right with him now as it did when he was Enjolras. But then he thought of becoming a doctor, and his heart was enflamed and the song ceased its incessant pounding. That was his new plan; he was going to see it through. 

“Oy! Lucien!” Lucien looked up, meeting the gaze of a boy who he had soon recalled as Fabien – his best friend. 

“Good morning, Fabien.” Fabien clapped a hand on Lucien’s shoulder and the two meandered their way into the school. Lucien nodded to those who called his name. _That’s right. Many friends, many names, but none quite so difficult to pronounce as Courfeyrac._

“Did you do Richard’s assignment?” Fabien pulled a paper from his bag, waving it in front of Lucien’s face. 

_“Enjolras! Do you have Geroux’s paper? Let me compare!” Combeferre smiled waving a piece of parchment in the air. “I feel like I’ve completely missed the point.”_

 _Enjolras chuckled and handed his paper to Combeferre who immediately paled at the length of his friend’s assignment. “You asked, mon ami. Don’t blame me.”_

 _

“My God, are you even a man? He assigned this yesterday!” 

_

“Oh, yeah. Here.” Lucien replied after thoroughly shaking his head. He handed Fabien the worksheet, trying to shake the memory – no, his imagination – away. 

“Oh man! There’s a back side?!” Fabien immediately turned to his friend and handed him back his assignment. “I’ve got study hour first! I’ll see you later!” 

With that, Fabien ran off to the library. Lucien shut his locker and looked down the hallway in a daze. 

Perhaps this had not been the particular life he had in mind, but it was his life now. It was all he had. And he was alone again. 

_I am Lucien. Not Michel._

 _Lucien. Not Michel._


	2. Chapter 2

London, 2013

"Hey Fiyero!"

"I've known you for a little over nine years, I don't quite understand how you still don't know my name." She glanced quickly at one of her closest friends. He quickly threw an arm around her shoulders which she didn't bother to shrug off.

"Look, I tell you this all the time." He was a tall boy, a good head taller than her. He had a head of inky black hair and friendly grey eyes. "My sister went through a crazy _Wicked_ phase and pasted her love of Fiyero all over her room. It's not my fault your name is so close to it."

Her name was actually Fiera Montague. _Fiera, Fiyero. Close enough, I guess._

"Fine, fine." The two made their way through downtown London with no destination in mind. "What can I do for you today, Sir Bates?"

Henry Bates was the only friend that she had kept in contact with after high school. They had been neighbours in Manchester and Henry was actually her cousin's ex-boyfriend. _Not that I'm too fond of her anyway. Straight off the rocker, that one._ Henry and Fiera had only become friends in the second semester of year 10 when Astrid dumped Henry for the captain of the football team. _Her loss, I guess. Still. Astrid is bonkers._

"What time does your shift start at the hospital?"

"I'm off today."

"All day?" Fiera sighed in exasperation.

"Yes. All day, Henry!" She shoved him playfully. "Now get on with what you want!"

"D'you think you could help me find a flat?"

"I don't want you living anywhere near me." She took longer strides to get further from him.

"Hey!" He shoved his hands into his pockets before running to catch up to her. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with me!"

-

Henry Bates was a tiring man; he was more excited puppy than adult male, if anything. They had spent the entire morning and a good portion of the afternoon running around London at Henry's whim. They looked at several flats, most were quite impressive in Fiera's opinion, but with Henry's wandering mind, she had no idea what the man was looking for in a house.

"I can't believe you dragged me through all of London and not decided which one you liked even a little bit!" Fiera wrapped her coat around herself a little more, glaring at her friend. He remained unfazed.

"I'm an artist, as you know. These choices can't be made just like that." He snapped his fingers in front of her nose. "One hasty choice and I'll be living in a house with the wrong aura!"

"You're a financial consultant, for God's sake. You don't need an 'aura'. You're never home long enough for one!" She grumbled incoherently under her breath.

"Ah, I'm a financial consultant for now, dearest Fiyero! That can all change with time!" She looked at him incredulously. "Besides, what if I brought a girl who's an artist home and I had the wrong aura? Neither of us can perform very well then, now can we?" He winked playfully.

"You, Henry Bates, are absolutely revolting." Fiera proceeded to fake-wretch into the London afternoon air before flagging down a taxi. "I'll see you later, Bates!"

With a wave, Henry's figure grew farther away and she went home.

-

It had been a long day at the hospital; from patients vomiting onto her shoes to other doctors being malicious. She came home extremely tired and ready to collapse. She had already thrown her shoes out, deeming them unusable and possibly radioactive. On top

With a sigh of relief, she kicked off her boots and then made her way to her bedroom. She climbed the stairs after hanging up her coat and opened up the window on the landing. The house was still very quiet so she tip-toed up the rest of the stairs and peeked into her flatmate's room. Finding him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed in what he stepped out in that morning, Fiera kicked the clothes littering his floor to the door. It was definitely laundry day.

She was about to make her way out of his room, when the man rolled over and muttered her name. One corner of her mouth turned up and she crouched by his bed. He didn't wake in his stirring; she brushed his hair from his forehead. She spent a few moments crouching silently by his bed, remembering how they met, then focusing on nothing in particular. She soon shook herself out of her daze. _All right, laundry and then I'll go for a walk._

She stood up to leave, but paused. She turned and dropped a kiss on his forehead. Just as she was about to close the door behind her to pick up his laundry, she heard:

"I'm making dinner."

-

London, 2012.

She pressed her hands to her stomach, feeling a sudden, aching hunger. She was unfamiliar with this sort of hunger. It was painful and constant. It pulled at her angrily as she tried to push it into the recesses of her mind. She shook her head, trying to find some clarity and her hand throbbed with pain. She lifted her hand, seeing no sign of injury and suddenly the pain was gone. But the feeling remained in her thoughts. If she had not been staring at her hand just then, she would have sworn that it had been torn apart, a gaping hole in the middle.

"I must be incredibly tired." She muttered quietly to herself. But she quickly frowned in thought. She had the chance to sleep in that morning, laying languidly tangled in her warm sheets. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she knew that she had woken quite well-rested. In fact, she was neither tired nor hungry and she was fully intact. Of this she was sure.

She rubbed her neck nervously and walked through the hospital doors as they slid open. She made her way through the hospital's foyer and took the stairs, two steps at a time. _If I don't hurry up, he's going to get discharged before I get there!_ She was still in her scrubs from her hospital, but today was an important day. She was finally going to bring him home.

-

London, 2012, Six months, two weeks, three days ago.

"I'm not going to lie to you. He's a bit of an oddball, Doc." The nurse beside her shook her head, the woman's red locks swaying back and forth. "Hasn't said a word in the two weeks he's been here."

Fiera had made it a habit of hers, since she'd moved out of Manchester, to make regular visits to patients at this hospital. More often than not, the many patients that stayed here did not have family or friends who would come visit or bring them home. They'd mostly come in and out without too much of a fuss from anyone apart from themselves. She found this a bit sad and had resolved to lend a hand to the low-staffed hospital by keeping company to the patients. She silently thanked old Mrs. Abbey from back home for telling her of the misfortunes of these patients.

"Two weeks, huh?" The nurse - Sophia, if Fiera remembered correctly - nodded, leading her down another turn into the windowed atrium.

"We figure he's going to be here a while, and since you've had the best patient responses you'd be best for him." Fiera barely understood anything Sophia said as she laid eyes on her patient for the first time. She felt her heart stop and she almost collapsed.

He was seated in a green, wing-backed chair, a book opened in his lap. She saw only his profile as he looked out the windows, gaze far-off and thoughtful. He looked a little different - with light brown hair instead of dark brown and soft, hazel eyes instead of hard grey - but she knew exactly who he was.

"Oh, mon Dieu." Her knees shook underneath her, and she brought her hand to her mouth. She felt Sophia grasp her elbow.

"What's wrong?" Fiera did not answer, she stepped in front of the man who immediately looked up at her. She fell to her knees.

"You are familiar to me." His voice even sounded the same. Fiera turned to Sophia, who was still standing.

"He's my-" _Oh God! What was he to her? Think of something quick!_ "My boyfriend." She looked at Sophia with tears in her eyes. "He was gone - there was an accident - but he was gone! And now...now he's here!"

"It's a good thing you came then, Doctor Montague."

As she made her to his room, she found him on the edge of the bed, a small bag at his feet. When she stepped into the room, he turned to meet her gaze and he smiled.

"Let's go home."

-

London, 2013

"Doctor Wright, I've got Doctor Anastasia Montague out here." Fiera uncrossed her arms and nervously unpinned then repinned her hospital badge on her coat pocket. The administrator's receptionist smiled warmly as she tapped several well-manicured fingers on her mahogany desk.

"Send her in." The man's voice on the intercom was deep and slightly cold, but that could have just been the machine itself.

"Go on in." With a nod and a deep breath, Fiera made her way through the doors that lead into the hospital administrator's office.

The office was a well-lit space, which was almost Spartan in its decoration. A large oak desk sat in front of the floor to ceiling window. Bookshelves stood by every wall and were filled with large, dusty tomes. Fiera dodged the table and sofa set that lay before the entry way and was designated for patient consultations. When she finally made it to the large oak desk, she took a seat in one of the two chairs when she was prompted by the man behind the desk.

"Hello, Anastasia." Fiera almost cringed at her given name, but met the administrator's calculating gaze.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Wright." She crossed her left ankle over her right. Doctor Alexander Wright was a tall man of 58 years and had been working at this particular hospital for a little over thirty years. The first time Fiera had met this man, it was at her initial medical school interview. Most found him a bit of a foreboding, dark man, but he was the furthest from that. He was a happy man; happy because he found what he wanted to do, worked hard at it, and was fantastic at what he did. He had been the hospital's head of surgery before getting into his administrative role.

When Fiera walked into her interview those few years ago, she was sure she was going to faint out of nervousness. It was Doctor Alexander Wright's positive and rather jolly countenance that changed her mind and mood and she had found herself in one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country.

"It's been a while since you've been in this position, hasn't it Doctor Montague?" Doctor Wright smiled good-naturedly, leaning forward with his hands clasped. Fiera chuckled, tucking a piece of hair that had escaped her hair tie.

"Yeah," she trailed. "What is it I'm here for, Doctor Wright?"

"How's that application for that position you were insterested in going?" Fiera quickly pressed her palms onto her thighs.

"I handed that into Maveric a couple weeks back. Haven't heard a peep." She shrugged, trying to be noncholant. She hoped her nervousness wasn't so obvious. She had a feeling she wasn't going to get it. _Evelyn Nolan is a jealous little bitch and has hated me since she messed up in that one surgery and I was the one who fixed it up for her. And we all know how smitten Maveric is with her._

Doctor Wright sent her a bitter smile. Fiera's stomach dropped. "I'm sorry, Doctor Montague. You did not get the position." She sighed in resignation and almost sunk back into the chair. She had truly been looking forward into immersing herself into emergency medicine. The emergency department at the hospital was the best and most sought after program in all of Europe. World-wide recognition and don't forget the pure adrenaline and stress factors that Fiera thrived under and was well-known for, it was precisely where she wanted to be. "I do, however, have a position that I'd like to offer you."

Fiera frowned, trying to remember what other positions were open, but drew a blank. "I don't remember if there was another position with an opening, Doctor Wright."

The older man smiled warmly. "Actually, it was never posted. It's a position that has incredibly particular prerequisites." _Now I'm interested._ "I'm not too sure if you've ever considered it, Doctor Montague, but have you ever looked into cardiology?"

"I can't say that I have."

"I looked into your previous internships, Doctor, and cardiology was the one field where you excelled above those in your year." He paused, she held her breath. "You've heard of Doctor Favreau, yes?"

Who hadn't heard of Doctor Lucien Favreau? He was the youngest and best cardiologist in Western Europe. When he had graduated from high school, in Paris, he went through one year of undergraduate studies before being hauled early into the best medical school in the UK. There he excelled over and above his older classmates and received his MD title by his 21st birthday, all of this on a full-ride scholarship. He specialized into cardiology, with a particular affinity for risky and delicate operational procedures and diagnoses. He travelled extensively, lecturing and looking over procedures all over the world.

Fiera had also heard of the man's personal life through the grapevine of her colleagues. Ridiculously handsome. Broad shoulders, deep voice, dark hair, and 'the bluest eyes on the face of the planet, like the ocean!' However, as handsome as he was, his countenance could not be further from his looks. Cold, calculating, extremely aloof. Highly efficient, and absurdly particular. Focused and passionate for what he did. No girlfriends, no wife, no parties. His bedside manner was perfect, but beyond that, he was as warm as a marble statue in the middle of a blizzard. The man had, also, never taken any interns, only surrounded by and working with colleagues who had barely scraped by in his application process and those were few and far between. Fiera greatly admired the man for his dedication and medical prowess and she could sort of understand why he was...that way, but she'd be damned if she tried to talk to the man, let alone work with him.

"Well, anyway. With some poking and prodding, on my part, he has admitted that he has been impressed by you and your work." _Well I'll be damned; marble-man has positive opinions!_ "Would you be interested in working with him in his department?"

Fiera's eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline. She had never considered cardiology, let alone working with Doctor Favreau. _From what I've heard, it'll probably be working for, not with, that man._ She quickly thought the proposition over. It was infinitely better than where she was now; there was probably a higher cheque waiting for her. On top of all of that, she would definitely be challenged. She pursed her lips before replying. "Don't get me wrong, Doctor Wright, but does Doctor Favreau actually need anyone else in his department?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Anastasia. Doctor Favreau was incredibly adamant that he does not need, and most importantly want, another doctor in his department. But, honestly, his department will function faster and better with another mind and set of hands. You are the only one that, I feel, is competent enough and will more than exceed my and Doctor Favreau's expectations. No matter how much he protests, that man needs your brilliant mind." Doctor Wright paused; the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. "Our hospital is stretched when it comes to competent doctors, Anastasia, and Doctor Favreau cannot be the only cardiologist we have on hand. You're a spectacular doctor and will, no doubt, get this specialization with your eyes closed. We need someone there and, frankly, you're the only sensible choice in the matter. I truly believe that you're the only who can match Doctor Favreau in skill and passion."

Fiera could not believe what she had just heard. She had been, for so long, at the end of the 'medical doctor food chain'. She had been looked down upon by her classmates and colleagues and had always been dealt the short end of the stick when it came to praises and opportunities. Now, this was the greatest chance she would get in her lifetime. "Okay, Doctor Wright. I'm interested. I'll give it a shot. Just one question."

"Yes?"

"He isn't expecting a doctor with no backbone, is he?" Doctor Wright didn't reply, just threw his head back in laughter.

-

 “Congratulations.” Her head remained facing forward, but she lifted her eyes to the bartender on her right. He met her gaze without wavering.

“For what?” He dropped the rag he was using to wipe down the countertop with. The young man shifted over to the girl who was still nursing her whiskey. He stood in front of her, a handsome smirk on his lips.

“You’re working with the best cardiologist in Western Europe.” He leaned on his elbows, their noses almost touching. He tucked a dark lock behind her ear. “That’s a cause for celebration and congratulations, I say.”

“More like working under.” The man grinned and tucked his hand behind her head and into her hair.

“Oh, kinky.” He smirked. “I like that.”

She pulled back from the man. “Let me be, you lecher.”

“You smell like heaven.” She slammed back the rest of her whiskey.

“Alcoholic.” She stood from her seat and he still towered over her.

“Resorting to name-calling, are we?” The laughter and teasing were evident in his tone. She made her way to the door. “Remember me yet?”

She paused, her hand caught in his. His voice was suddenly serious. Her gaze lifted to his. “I’ve never forgotten.”

She pulled again and he let go. She had a hand on the door when he stopped her again. “Tomorrow then?”

She threw a smile over her shoulder. “As usual.”

-

She walked to her flat with quick steps. The bar wasn't too far from where she lived, but the night was cold and she was alone. She turned a corner and took two stairs at a time before unlocking her door. The warmth of her home enveloped her immediately and she breathed in contentment. Fiera kicked off her boots and dropped her keys into the bowl by the entryway.

The lights were already on around the house and there were noises coming from the kitchen. She tied her hair up into a messy bun. When she got into the kitchen, she stayed by the doorway, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

"What ya got there?" Her flatmate, if she could even call him that, turned in surprise, almost dropping the pot in his hands.

"Oh God!" He placed the pot back onto the stove. "You scared me real good there!"

Fiera chuckled and continued into the kitchen, grabbing two plates and utensils. "What're we having tonight, chef extraordinaire?" She set their places at the table.

"Seafood spaghetti!" She took a deep breath; the smell of the food was heavenly. "I heard about your new digs at the hospital. I bought some good wine for the occasion."

"News travels fast." She picked up the bottle of wine. "Merlot? Where do you even get enough money for this?" Her flatmate chose not to reply, he instead started placing the food at the table. Within a few minutes, the pair were sitting down and starting to eat.

"Good God. This is delicious!" The handsome man smiled as Fiera groaned at the flavours exploding in her mouth.

"Glad you like it." The next few minutes were spent in relative silence, the only sounds cutting into their quiet were the scrapings of their forks and occasional clinking of glass. Midway through their meal, Fiera put down her fork and sat in contemplative silence. Sensing that she had something to say, the man beside her put his fork down as well and waited patiently.

Fiera turned to look at her friend, taking in his light brown locks sticking out at random angles and kind, hazel eyes. He gave her a tentative smile and she placed her hand on top of his. "I'm really glad you came into my life, Courf."

 "I'm glad I've got you, 'Ponine." He interlocked their fingers and squeezed her hand.

 


	3. Chapter 3

London, 2004 - 9 years ago

Lucien looked down at the letter in his hands, ignoring the rushing students around him. He had a small smile on his lips.

_Hi Lucien!_

_We heard about your early acceptance into medical school, Lucien. I expect you'll be hearing from mama and papa soon, but you know them. Busy, busy! Anyway, congratulations from me! We're all super proud of you and I didn't expect anything less. I don't know why you were so worried - they pretty much plucked you from high school and primed you for med._

_I know I'm not really anyone to tell you what to do, but you've been so crazy focused since the accident and haven't dated anyone and I worry. Where was I going with this? Right! I know you'll be busy being a smarty-pants and not doing anything fun, but do try! For me at least. Make friends, fall in love! You're from Paris! Love is, like, a prerequisite! I'm sure you're impressing more than just your professors out there with your smarts. I'm sure the ladies (or gents, if you like!) are simply melting from your good looks and French accent._

_Do you remember Lara Beaudin? Our old neighbour and your classmate in chimie? She came around last week, asking about you. Shall I have her fly over there for a date? Lord knows she has the money._

_You know I'm kidding right? She did stop by, but I told her that you'd rather lick my boot than go out with her._

_Anyway, that's it. Take care of yourself, brother. Congratulations again!_

_All my love. Your sister,_

_J. Favreau._

Lucien shook his head, chuckling. His sister was always more for the traditional - opting for snail mail over email or texts. Something about authenticity. He made his way through campus, searching for his classmate and closest friend in London. They had planned to meet so that they could finish the presentation that they had been working on for three weeks.

"Lucien! Over here!" Lucien spotted his classmate from pharmacology research by a large tree, the table before him covered in papers and textbooks. Thankfully it was neither raining nor windy.

"Hey Raph." He dropped his bag on the ground and turned one of the three large textbooks towards himself. The other man nodded with a grin. "Let's finish this up."

-

London, 2005 - 8 years ago

Lucien was twenty years old when he first thought he saw a ghost. He was walking down a busy, London street and it was, miraculously, not raining. Yet. He dodged the legions of people hurriedly walking past him. Despite his twisting between bodies, Lucien walked with confidence and purpose.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Lucien gave the business man a tight-lipped smile, bending down to help the man up. When the man was on his feet, he brushed himself off and grinned at the young, medical student. “Thank you, young man. Not many would stop to help me up.”

“It was no problem I-” Lucien stopped talking abruptly, finding a familiar face just over the man’s shoulder, only a block away. _Combeferre._ He glanced quickly at the man. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to catch up with someone.”

With a nod, both men went off in opposite directions and Lucien took off running. _It can’t be._ He could barely breathe. _It’s not possible._ He felt like he was going mad, but Combeferre was right there. He looked exactly the same, but different all at once. _Oh God._

Lucien ran across the street, bypassing people who had their heads turned down. _He’s just right there._ He reached out, ready to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but paused. _It was all his imagination. Wasn’t it? This cannot be._ As he was dropping his hand, Combeferre turned and looked straight at Lucien.

“Hey, man. You all good there?” Lucien looked at him wide-eyed. Combeferre’s friend behind him, who had apparently pointed Lucien out, looked at him with slight concern. Combeferre smiled at him before shrugging one shoulder, coaxing an answer from Lucien.

“I…I-Yeah. I’m good.” Lucien hurried to compose himself, but confusion was still set in his gaze. “Sorry. You just looked like someone I knew.”

The man in front of him tilted his head, probably trying to put Lucien’s face to a name. After a moment, he replied, sucking in a breath. “Can’t say we’ve met.”

“We’re going to be late, Spence.” Nodding, _Spence_ placed a firm hand on Lucien’s shoulder.

“Sorry, man.” He turned to leave, but threw a grin over his shoulder. “See you around!”

Lucien watched them walk away before making his way back to the university.

_I am Lucien, not Michel._

-

London, 2006 - 7 years ago

The next time Lucien saw ghosts, he was out with his friends. They had gone out to some stupid dance club that was far too loud and crowded for Lucien. He looked at his cell phone, checking the time. With a sigh, he pushed past groups of dancing women with his head down. He could still feel their drunken stares on his back as he walked by. He felt unpleasant shivers go down his back.

He made his way to the bar on this floor, keeping tabs as to where his friends were. He spotted them at a table just off of the dance floor, drunkenly shouting the lyrics to the music and coaxing a couple girls to join them.

"Pick your poision." The club was loud, but Lucien heard the bartender as clear as day, as bartenders are trained to do, but there was something else. His mind was already in an alcohol-induced haze, so all of Lucien's carefully constructed defenses were crumbling and when he laid eyes on the bartender his jaw slackened and he almost dropped his empty glass.

"I..." The bartender raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for his order.

"Come on, man." He breathed derisively out of his nose. "I don't have all night."

Several customers grumbled and others yelled at him to hurry up.

"Strongest whiskey you got." He slapped down three twenties. "And keep 'em coming."

It was a little harder to convince himself that he was Lucien that night when _Grantaire_ was the one pouring his drinks.

-

London, 2013 - Present day

It had been several weeks since she had accepted the position in Doctor Lucien Favreau's fellowship. She worked with several other doctors - all the top of their fields with a list of glowing accolades and references the length of Fiera's body twice over.

Doctor Vincent Paul hailed from Montreal and was accepted into the job after a particularly difficult heart procedure went haywire and his quick-thinking saved the patient's life and made world headlines. He was the youngest of the three male fellows, but he never ceased to amaze Fiera with his wit and fleeting maturity.

Doctor Raphael Carvalho was flown in from Brazil and had been the first of the four to ever work for Lucien Favreau. He had been hand-picked for the position as he had been both a fantastic doctor and one of Lucien's friends from his medical school days. He was an interesting man who had an affinity for poetry and Fiera soon found that he had scribbled down verses on almost all of his notes.

Doctor Thomas Lindberg came in from Sweden.  He was a good looking man, with the typical Swedish blond hair and blue eyes that made him an immediate favourite with the hospital’s nurses. He had a sharp tongue, which sometimes got him into a bit of trouble, but he was a quick learner and an even better physician.  He had been one of the youngest graduates of his year at the University of Karolinska and had caught Doctor Favreau’s eye when he executed a heart and lung transplant perfectly a few months after graduation.

The three of them were sat in one of the third floor labs, going over the cases that they had recently received.

"How does he do it?" Raphael raised his head and looked at the young woman. She continued after stifling a yawn. "How is he able to work people to the bone without even being here?"

Vincent laughed while Raphael replied. "He can do it because we're scared shitless when it comes to that man."

"Have any of you actually met him?" Thomas raised an eyebrow in thought and then frowned.

"I think we've all met him." Vincent looked at the other doctors who were nodding in agreement. "But it took a damn long time for some of us to get eyes on him."

"Slippery one, he is." Thomas added.

"I met him about six weeks after I had started. Only contact I had were a few phone calls and several hundred emails." She looked at Vincent in surprise. Six weeks, what exactly was this guy doing that he couldn't even meet anyone he hired personally for six weeks? "Thomas has me beat, though. What was yours, 'Mas? Eleven weeks?" Thomas nodded at Vincent's statement.

"And three days."

Fiera whistled, impressed and dismayed. "Damn." She clicked her tongue in thought. "Considering I'm a special case and he doesn't even want me on the team, I don't even think he'll want to be in the same hospital as me."

"Man's a genius, but his people skills are nada." Thomas chuckled as he flipped through a few closed files.

"I'd have to disagree with that, Thomas." They heard the door slide closed behind them and Thomas went rigid, the file he held fell to the floor. "My people skills are quite present. But I do believe your gossiping could use a little more discretion." Doctor Lucien Favreau paused, but did not look from the file in his hands. "I do hope that you've all used your time a little more productively than talking about little, old me."

The four doctors remained silent as the man walked by them and into his office. Thomas stood with his mouth gaping open and close like a fish out of water. "I expect you in my office momentarily, Doctor Montague. Please take a moment to help compose your colleagues as they seem to have lost the ability function." Without a glance or another word, he closed his door.

"Was a that a joke? That was a joke!" Vincent looked at his fellow doctors who were still at a loss for words. "He just told a joke! I've never seen him smile, let alone tell a joke! Am I dead?" Like she said, fleeting maturity. Incredibly fleeting.

"Special case indeed!" Thomas finally came out of his stupor and grabbed Fiera by the shoulders. "Special case! Teach me your ways!"

Fiera looked at the men in bewilderment and confusion. "I-what?" Raphael started laughing hysterically and it came out more like a cackle.

"Things are changing! The tides are turning!" Raphael ran up to her and promptly embraced her, clapping her on the back.

"I'm going to leave you nutters to yourselves. Hopefully when - or if - I come out, you'll be some semblance of normalcy." She made her way to Favreau's office.

"Normalcy, she says!" Vincent shouted playfully at her retreating back. "It stopped being normal the moment Wright put you on our team!"

-

_No. No. That’s not right at all. It can’t be._ Fiera stood frozen by the door of Doctor Lucien Favreau’s office. _I must be dreaming. There is absolutely no way-_

“Please take a seat, Doctor Montague.” The man finally looked up from the computer screen at his desk. He was silent for a few moments, his eyes going over her once before coming back to her face, but his eyes remained calculating and face impassive. “I promise this won’t take long.”

“I-Yes. Okay.” She shuffled over to the man, taking a seat in one of the two seats by the large, cherry desk.

Everything he said and everything she answered went over her head. She wasn’t quite sure what he was saying or how she was answering, but she figured her answers were appropriate as she had not been thrown out of the room. Yet.

His eyes hadn’t changed a bit. Still as blue as the ocean and passionate beyond compare. She could barely breathe; was it just her or was the air stifling? She couldn’t stop staring at him. He was as good looking as the nurses down on the second floor said he was, but she missed the gold on his head more than she cared to admit.

“Doctor Montague?” She was torn out of her reverie quite violently.

“S-Sorry?” Lucien smiled at the woman in front of him as warmly as he could.

“I just wanted to welcome you onto the team, Doctor Montagu-”

“Fiera.”

“Pardon me?”

“My apologies, Doctor Favreau.” She coughed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence. “I’d prefer it if you called me Fiera. Doctor Montague reminds me too much of my aunt.”

“I thought Anastasia was your first name.”

“Oh! It is!” She smoothed her hands down her lap. “I just prefer my middle name.”

“Fiera, is it?” She nodded and smiled with what she hoped was some semblance of warmth. A corner of Lucien’s lips quirked up. “Since we’ll be working together, please call me Lucien.” He presented a hand for her to shake, which she did. “The rest of the guys do.”

“Right, _Lucien._ ” The name was foreign on her tongue and she knew that she would never get used to calling him _that._ “I look forward to working with you. I won’t let you down, Monsieur!”

“Monsieur?” Fiera froze in her seat and mentally berated herself by letting that slip.

“I’m French.” She bit out, nervously, although she knew that her street accent was too heavy to be recognizably modern French. “Force of habit. Won’t happen again.”

Lucien stared at her contemplatively, but nodded after a few moments. “It’s all right. I’m French as well.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I look forward to working with you as well, Fiera.”

She took her leave, then and when she made it out of his office, made a beeline for the bathroom. She locked herself in a stall and placed her head into her hands.

_Michel Enjolras. Of all people, Lucien Favreau had to be Apollo._

-

_I must be going mad._

_It was just my imagination._

_She was a shadow. Nothing, but a ghost of a time that never was._

_Éponine Thénardier is dead._

_I am Lucien. I cannot be Michel Enjolras._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! I do apologize for the wait. This one was a little hard to come by, plot-wise and I have a buttload of midterms and papers due. I just always have a bit of a rough time doing introductions. I know a few random ocs, I'm not too sure what I want to do with them as of yet, but I couldn't bloody well have a fellowship consisting of only Enjolras and Eponine.
> 
> One day I'll just call them Enjolras and Eponine, but that is not this day. Nor the next time.
> 
> I'll go plunk away at chapter 4 now. That is, if I don't do a companion piece for that oneshot first.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey.”

_Michel Enjolras._

“Hey, Fiera.”

_Do you remember me?_

“Fiera!”

_I was the first to fall. That’s what you said._

“You’re staring.” Thomas side-eyed Vincent as the younger doctor tried to gain Fiera’s attention.

“She’s totally staring.” They were currently sitting in a full 500-seat luncheon of which Lucien Favreau was keynote speaker. The moment their lead physician started talking, Fiera had been lost to them.

“She totally has a crush on Lucien.” Raphael vaguely remembered the event being something about heart disease…not exactly what he had in mind as a conversation starter, but hey, free lunch!

“I wouldn’t blame her though. I’d have a crush on Lucien…if he weren’t a complete robot.” Vincent punched Thomas in the arm and the other doctor bit his lip to keep himself from yelling at Vincent.

_And you haven’t changed a bit._

“Why doesn’t she stare at me like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re a total ponce and a disaster when it comes to public speaking?” Raphael tried to signal at his two colleagues to can it, but to no avail.

“I can totally speak publicly!” Vincent snorted, ego bruised.

“Didn’t go so well in Texas last year, remember?”

“I was just nervous!”

“Oh yeah, because ‘I totally got this in the bag, guys’ equates to tripping on your feet and spilling water all over the congressman’s wife!”

“Shut up!” Vincent kicked Thomas’ chair as Raphael reached over and slapped the two over their heads.

“Actually, both of you shut up before Lucien bites our heads off.” Raphael briefly glared at them. “I prefer my head on my shoulders.”

“I just want her to love me!”

-

_Three Months Later_

The days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Fiera had been working with the boys for three months. They had closed a dozen different cases and were gaining some serious street cred for their work. Okay. Maybe not street cred, but hospitals all over Europe were looking on in jealousy.

Fiera felt like she had been stuck in limbo for three whole months. She enjoyed her job; she almost enjoyed it too much. But above all this, she was stuck in a purgatory of ridiculous admiration for Michel-Lucien (whoever he was now) and a serious need to bash Michel-Lucien’s stubborn head in.

When Doctor Wright had offered her the position, she had expected some resistance and at first it was exhilarating. She was working alongside the best doctors in their fields and everyday was a new challenge. She gained new insight and perspectives on all that she knew about cardiology and all of its procedures. She would get into serious debates on patient wellness and riskiness of surgeries. She was even lead on two cases which had only been solved due to her quick thinking. She loved everything about this branch in the hospital.

That is, until Lucien started grating on her nerves. Absolutely everything she suggested would be disputed and crucified by Lucien Favreau. Even treatments that would make sense would have to be carefully reconsidered and begrudgingly accepted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, Fiera.” Lucien looked at her over the top of the file he was reading. He shook his head in the negative. “There is no way I’m authorizing that.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” She received no response from the man before her and she had to suppress the tantrum she so desperately wanted to throw. This was the fourth time her ideas had been shot down in a week. It was only Tuesday.

With a glare, she made her way out of the cardiology offices and down to the main floor of the hospital. She ignored the greetings and calls of her colleagues and made for the hospital’s sliding glass doors.

She stomped her way outside, very nearly pulling her hair out of her head. She walked swiftly away from the hospital and made it to the city gardens across the street. She was still fuming as she dropped onto a bench under a tree.

_Stupid Lucien with stupid Michel’s stubbornness. So stupid. I can’t believe that guy. He hasn’t changed in over 200 years!_

She stewed in her anger for a few more minutes before sighing audibly and leaning forward, pressed her face into her palms. “God, ‘Ponine, the things you do.”

“Teresa!” She raised her head at the smooth male tone and her gaze landed on a young woman held in a young man’s grasp.

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking me.” The couple didn’t notice her and those around her paid no mind to her bitter chuckle.

_Marius and Cosette_

She leaned back laughing, her head falling back with her mirth. _At least they haven’t changed…and at least they’re happy._

“God, he’s so full of it.” She kept her eyes on the couple, smiling at their happiness. “Michel Enjolras, you are still so full of it.”

With that she made her way back to the hospital.

-

“God, Grantaire.” Fiera dropped her head, smacking it into the bar counter. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Silence and then: “Ow.”

“Oh, Ep.” Grantaire moved to her, placing a gin and tonic in her hands.

“I saw Marius and Cosette today.” She swirled her glass, watching as the ice clinked against the sides. “They’re doing well.”

“They’re doing well?” He crossed his arms in front of himself. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“They’re together, as they should be.” Her gaze pointed downwards, but her tone was lighter than he thought it could have been. “They’re happy, I’m happy. And before you ask, I’m fine with it. I was never meant for Marius.”

“Well, all right then.” Grantaire continued wiping down the counter absentmindedly, disbelieving her. They carried on in silence for a few moments before Fiera sighed heavily. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t fucking do this anymore.” She didn’t even care that she sounded whiny; she was just finished with everything.

“You have to.” He lifted her head, and rested his forehead against hers. “We have to.”

“We’ve been alone for so long, Grantaire.” He could see the pain and anger in her eyes. “Why do we have to keep doing this?”

“Because no one else will, Ep.”

“Will what, ‘Taire?” She backed up from him, slamming the drink in her hands back into her throat. “Remember? Because I don’t want to remember anymore!”

“I know it sucks, Ep!” He removed the, now, empty glass from her grasp. He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “I know it hurts, I know.”

“I see them every single fucking day and none of them remember.”

“It’s our burden to bear, Ep.” She looked at him helplessly, tears ready to fall down her cheeks. He stared at her momentarily before pressing his lips to her forehead. “It fucking sucks, but it’s ours.”

-

The next day she worked in complete silence. She ignored all the joking and laughter of her colleagues and disregarded the fact that Lucien was absolutely not listening to her. _Our burden indeed. How can I pretend that I don’t see Enjolras every bloody day? Let’s not forget that he actually hasn’t changed very much in the last two centuries._

**Paging Doctor Montague. Doctor Montague to operating room three.**

Fiera looked up from her feet and made eye-contact with Lucien. She frowned and closed the folder in front of her. The lead doctor said nothing and continued on with his note-taking.

“You’re still being called in for surgeries?” Thomas looked at her, confused.

“Must be important.” She stood up and smoothed down her pant legs. “We’re not doing anything anyway, right?”

She didn’t bother to check if anyone countered and made her way to the door. When she was halfway down the hall, she heard someone call after her.

“Do you mind if I come along?” She turned to face Lucien Favreau. “I’d like to see you in your element.”

“Let’s go then, Lucien.”

The ride down the elevator was silent and she didn’t bother to send him an awkward stare. _It’s going to be all right. It’s just Lucien._

“Hello, Doctor Montague.” She looked to the nurse who had greeted them by the operating room doors. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but all of our surgeons are on call; I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

“That’s fine.” She grabbed a set of scrubs and went into the change room. After a few moments, she came back out, shrugging on a surgical coat. “Don’t worry about debrief; I’ve already read his file.”

She looked over to Lucien, who was tying a surgical mask around his neck. He looked back and she nodded her chin towards him.

“Alright, boys. Let’s scrub in.”

-

Perhaps it was the fact that her boss was watching her every move or maybe it was the fact her boss was actually breathing down her neck. Whatever it was, Fiera had never been more nervous in her life and if she wasn’t keen on keeping her medical license, she would have fainted already.

Well, Lucien wasn’t only _Lucien_ ; he was Michel Enjolras as well and, God, if that didn’t produce the best looking, but positively uptight asshole on the planet. So, yeah, maybe Fiera shouldn’t have agreed to him coming down here.

But one look at 45 year old Daniel Smith with a pipe going through his stomach on the operating table kicked her ass into gear. “Let’s go, he’ll bleed out if we don’t hurry the hell up.”

-

_Several hours later_

To call that the most nerve-wracking surgery she’s ever done would have been the understatement of the decade. She had never been so shaky during a procedure, not even in first year! She had also never been so angry at another human being – if she could even call him that.

He’s so self-assured and uptight and an asshole.

So let-me-just-interrupt-you-as-you’re-pulling-that-pole-out-of-that-guy

So your-way-is-wrong-my-way-is-right

So you’ll-kill-him-if-you-do-that

So I-am-most-definitely-right-and-you-should-do-as-I-say

So are-you-actually-trying-to-kill-him-because-doing-that-you-will

So do-it-my-way-or-the-highway

So…ARGH

When the surgery finished and she ripped herself out of the bloodied scrubs, he was conveniently already gone from the operating floor. She took the stairs two at a time in lieu of waiting for the elevator to come down.

“Listen here, Doctor Favreau.” Fiera tore into their offices after her surgery wrapped up, making a beeline for Lucien in his office. She was angry; she was more than angry – she was furious. She stopped before him, hands on her hips and feet shoulder-width apart, looking fully intent on throttling her superior. “In that OR, I am lead. You don’t come in and start undermining my authority. I listen to you out here; I’ll take all your criticisms and arguments and although I don’t understand why not, I’ll listen to you when you don’t authorize procedures that make sense. But when I’m in surgery, that’s a whole different ball game.”

“Fiera, calm down a…” Raphael trailed off at the fiery glare she sent his way.

“No.” With that, she kicked the door to Lucien’s office shut, effectively cutting off the rest of the team from her rant at Lucien. “I am done with taking all of this laying down. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but it is completely unfair to be taking your issues out on me. I understand that you’re the best in your field, but you have got to stop undermining me for whatever selfish reason you have against me. When will you start acting for the better of the patient and not standing by like some statue for your beliefs?”

“Whether or not you are aware of it, Fiera, what I said was completely true. You should not have followed through with that decision. You put the patient’s life in danger by your brashness.” Her eyes narrowed in frustration and his face remained impassive.

“Are you kidding me?” She shoved her hands into her lab coat pockets to keep herself from taking a swing at the man. “The patient’s life was in danger regardless! I was just doing my job!”

“Thankfully his will to live overcame your stupidity!” Lucien stood up and Fiera was thankful that she stood a few feet from him otherwise she would have to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

“My stupidity? Are you serious?” She breathed harshly out of her nose to calm herself. “There has to be a point in your life where you have to realize that you are wrong. I cannot believe you.”

“Then perhaps you should not be on this team, Doctor Montague.” He stared her right in the eyes, the blue of his irises almost on fire. “I was simply expressing a more efficient way of going through that surgery. It would have been a less risky decision. There are, indeed, times where I know I am wrong and I will answer to them, but this was not one of those moments. I was correct; you were just lucky.”

“Fire me, for all I care! I know I wasn’t lucky. I know my abilities and I knew exactly what I was doing out there, just like how I know what I do here. Actually you know what? I’ll do you a favour; I quit! I cannot stand this weird ass vendetta you’ve got against me!”

He turned to the window by his desk, looking out into the sky. He couldn’t bear to face her now; not when she looked so much like Éponine. The rough tone in her voice reminded him too much of the gamine and the passion that she exuded brought him back to a time where she lived to die for a blind man and he tried to stir a people to fight a war they didn’t want to fight.

“You are absolutely impossible! With all your hardened truths and your untouchable values, it’s no wonder they call you a marble statue, Enjolras!” As soon as those words dropped from her lips, she wished she had never said them. She slapped her hand to her mouth, eyes wide and staring at her attending in front of her.

_Great. Now I’m going to get written up for psychosis and-_

_  
_“What did you just call me?” His voice was barely a whisper. _Right, that’s after I get fired of course. Fired then psychiatric treatment._

  
“I…I called you a…a marble-” 

“No.” He whirled around to face her. In that moment, the young doctor’s breath was taken away. The sun shone behind him through the window, creating a halo around his head. He stepped towards her and she stood frozen. “What was that name? Tell me that name.” 

He took a few more steps towards her and the only thought in her head was how frighteningly beautiful he looked. He was so close to her; she could make out every detail in his eyes, every direction the dark hairs on his head went. His eyes were wide, his hands clenched at his sides, and she finally let out a breath. “Enjolras. I called you Enjolras.”

And somehow she ended up pressed against him. His arms surrounded her tightly, one hand buried into her hair. She felt his breath against her neck and heard him whisper the one thing that chilled her to the bone over and over again. “Éponine. Oh God, Éponine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I'm alive! Here's chapter 4. I decided to get the ball rolling in this chapter. I couldn't stand waiting any longer. If anything doesn't make sense, shoot me a message, maybe I can decipher what I meant. I did, after all, write this during some early morning hours. Right, before I start officially, let's do a head count?
> 
> Éponine (Fiera), Enjolras (Lucien), Grantaire (the bartender), Combeferre (Spence), Courf (the flatmate).
> 
> Is that all? Carry on then!


	5. Chapter 5

“Where’s Fiera?”

“She’s called in sick for the whole week, boss man.”

“Oh, I see.”

“That’s all? ‘Oh, I see’?” Lucien looked up and met Raphael’s steady gaze. “What happened between you two, Lucien?”

“Between us?” He shuffled the papers in front of him absentmindedly. “Nothing – just nothing. Just a bit of an argument, but that’s normal.”

Raphael remained silent; it was just the two of them in the office as Thomas and Vincent had gone down to talk to their current patient. “Look, I know it might not my place to comment, but that was pretty big, Lucien.”

“I-” He sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m a mess.”

“Oh, we all know that.” Raphael chuckled. “Hear me out, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah go for it.”

“I’ve known you since we were puppies in med school, so I’ve seen all your moods and your ups and downs.” Raphael placed his hands in his coat pockets. “You’re an amazing doctor, Lucien, and I do like you – even if that’s hard to believe. But Fiera’s an incredible doctor too and I like her and she’s actually the only doctor I’ve seen that can even keep up with you. And you know that, even if you don’t care to admit it.”

“I know that.”

“Hey, I’m not finished yet.”

“I forgot how much you loved to talk.” The pair chuckled and Lucien urged Raphael to continue.

“Anyway, if there’s one thing you’re going to regret, it’ll be losing a doctor like her.” “I’ve never seen you quite as alive as you are when you’re with her.” Raphael turned and made his way out. With his hand on the door, he turned back to his colleague. “Keep that in mind, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Lucien sent him a half-hearted smile, shoulders slouching with some unknown weight when the door slid shut behind Raphael.

-

“Ep?” Courfeyrac worriedly knocked on her door. “Come on, open your door Ep!” He paced before the closed door and was met with silence. “Please! Ep!”

“It’s open, Courf.” The man carefully opened the door and edged himself into her room. He looked frantically around the room and his gaze landed on the lump on the bed that was Éponine. He made his way to the bed and sat himself down by what he assumed was her head.

“You’ve hardly moved since yesterday. Are you sure you’re okay?” Éponine lifted the blanket from her head, before tackling Courfeyrac’s middle.

“I’m okay.” She breathed in deeply. “I’m okay.”

The pair stayed quiet, Courfeyrac methodically running his fingers through her hair. “Oh _God._ Why do you still have that?”

Éponine slowly turned her head in the direction of Courfeyrac’s gaze and found the almost gaudy stitched doll on her bookshelf.

“It’s from you.” She smiled lazily. “It’s my favourite too.”

“That thing is so ugly, it’s adorable.” Courfeyrac continued staring at his hand-stitched gift from last year. It stared back at him with its black button eyes. It had curly, purple afro hair and wore nothing but leopard-print pants. “God, I am never sewing anything again.”

“Hey, I like it!” She whacked his chest with a pillow and he retaliated by messing up her hair. “It’s the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

“Oh man, what sorts of presents have you gotten?” Éponine started chuckling, which soon progressed to a full-blown laugh and Courfeyrac immediately joined her.

-

“Fiera Montague!” Fiera groaned, recognizing the voice of the man who was pounding on her door.

“Who’s that?”

“Maybe if we stay quiet, he’ll go away.” _Yeah, fat chance. Grantaire never goes away._

“I know you’re in there.” Grantaire paused, fist still pounding on the door. “You can’t fool me! I’ve got the ears of a fox! I can hear you breathing! If you don’t open the door immediately, the world will soon know you by another name!”

“Shit!” Fiera leapt off of the couch and Courfeyrac paused the video game they had been playing. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” She ran to the door, flinging it open and almost getting punched by Grantaire.

“Fiera! Darling!” He flung his arms out and Fiera stared at him, exasperated. “Let me in.” He deadpanned. Fiera moved to the side, letting the bartender into the home.

“Fiera, who was that – Grantaire?”  At that moment, Courfeyrac made his way into the foyer, eying the pair who were just standing there and staring at each other.

“Courf.” Grantaire grinned at the man and then turned back to Fiera. “Now, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” She crossed her arms, leading the two boys into the adjacent living room.

“That you haven’t gone to work for the past two weeks, Ep?” Grantaire leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He looked right at Éponine. “I had to find this out from your boss, you see.”

“Wait, you found out from…from Lucien?” She visibly paled and she was glad that she was sitting down.

“Yeah, he came to the pub last night, but not only that.” “He remembers everything and he thinks that he’s driven you away. Why didn’t you tell me he remembered?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m still trying to come to grips with it myself!” Éponine frowned, leaning back running her hands down her face. “What happened exactly?”

-

_The night before_

Lucien didn’t even know what he was doing at this dive bar. He was completely out of place in his dress pants and button up, but he was already too far gone to care. He would have skipped over the place, had he not caught a glimpse of the bartender and tripped his way inside.

Pestering a dude who he thought was Grantaire was a good idea in his already drunken mind, apparently.

“Hullo!” He plopped himself onto a stool, directly in front of the guy and grinned. “Gimme a – uh – oh! I’ll have a…what’s that thingy called? I don’t know really. But the stuff I’ve already had tasted like shiiiiiit.” He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially as if sharing a secret. “Can you gimme something fruity? I’d like to try that.”

Grantaire looked at the obviously inebriated man before him, frowning and thinking that Enjolras really should not be acting like an idiot. He mixed the man a Shirley temple, hoping that the good doctor would not notice the lack of alcohol.

“Thank you, Gran-!” Lucien’s eyes widened comically, opting to occupy himself by sipping on the drink. “You know – you know! You are like this guy I knew, but you know what?”

“Hey man, you all right?” Grantaire was getting nervous, watching as Lucien teetered from side to side on the stool.

“You used to call me Apollo.” Grantaire almost dropped the glass he was wiping down, and he grasped the countertop as the blood rushed away from his head.

“I…uh…”

“I thought I was going crazy, but you know what? I can’t be!” He took another long sip from his glass. “Because _she_ remembered. _Éponine_ remembered.” He started chuckling and Grantaire was glad that there was absolutely no one in the bar. “But I think I fucked it up. She hasn’t come to work in two weeks and if I were her, I would’ve left too because I fucked up.” He sighed and tapped the side of his, now, empty glass.

“What’d you do?”

“I hugged her.” Lucien – or Enjolras – chuckled ruefully. The fact that the guy wasn’t calling the cops or a hospital or even asking if he had taken any drugs tonight didn’t even register. “I _hugged_ her. Because I thought she wasn’t really there – like I was just imagining her. God, I’m such an idiot, ‘Taire.” Then his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I called you ‘Taire. You don’t mind, do you?” He waited for Grantaire’s approval and asked for a refill. “That’s really good stuff. Whazinnit?”

“Why do you care? About her, I mean.” He leaned against the back counter, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I’ve always been alone. All by myself, wondering if I’m remembering or just making stuff up to fill the spaces in my head. Or heart. Or whatever.” Lucien started spinning the glass around in his hands, staring intently at the top of the cup. “Then she came in and was so good at what she did, so maybe then I figured even though I completely messed up, it’s ok because she turned out just fine. It took a couple centuries, but she’s fine.” He pressed his face into his palms, staying silent for a moment before returning to his speech, waving a hand in the air. “And then – and then before everything exploded, I thought – she goes by Fiera now, you see – I couldn’t _not_ have Fiera around. She’s _so_ good and things felt normal again and real – it hasn’t been real for a very long time, even if all of that was made up.

“And then I…she’s Éponine. And she remembers _me_. Me, the Enjolras me – she remembers that, that one piece of me that I’ve kept a secret that’s both so important and personal to me. And so all that stuff must have been real. And if she remembers someone like me, she must be special – so she became important to me, someone so incredibly important.” He immediately looked at Grantaire, with a gaze so clear that it had the bartender wondering if he was even drunk. “It took me two weeks and it’s been on my mind the whole time to make up my mind and realize; I need her, ‘Taire. Because she makes things real and make sense and I’m alive again – that’s what Raph said – and I’m part of something again. Because she’s just right there and I _need_ her. I don’t want to be alone again.” Enjolras raised a hand, wiping the tears at the corners of his eyes. And with a sigh he finished: “I can’t be without her. I can’t be alone again.”

He then promptly passed out.

“Well, shit.” Grantaire shook his head before picking up the phone to call the poor guy a cab.

-

_Present - Today_

“What’d he say about me exactly?” She leaned forward, but Grantaire did not relent. He opted to tell her that Enjolras had said some things about her remembering, but it was too personal for him to reiterate.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Éponine immediately frowned, but was not disappointed by what her friend had said. “You should ask him yourself.”  

“Okay, I get it.” There was no trace of resentment in her tone, just acceptance.

“You should get back to work too.” She glared playfully at the bartender who responded with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Fine, tomorrow.”

“How’d you do that?” Courfeyrac popped in through the doorway from the kitchen. “I’ve been trying to get her to go to work for the last two weeks! It took you thirty seconds!”

“What can I say? I’ve got skills.” The trio started laughing almost hysterically.

“Whatever you say, ‘Taire.” Courfeyrac shook his head, a smile on his lips, before returning to whatever he was doing in the kitchen.

-

“Hey! Boss man!” Lucien looked up from the patient file and paused his instructions, finding Vincent grinning from the door.

“Pardon me, Miss Cooper.” He made his way outside, missing the young woman’s frown of disappointment.

“Ooh, she’s cute!” Then Vincent chuckled. “Of course she’d be into you, Mr. Professionalism.”

“You did not just pull me out of the room because you wanted me to tell me of her attraction to me.” Lucien crossed his arms, unimpressed, but smiled nonetheless.

“No! I was actually-” Vincent then backtracked. “You _know_ she wants to get in your pants? And you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“Come on, Vincent. Tell me what you were actually going to tell me. I don’t have all day.”

“Oh, right! Fiera’s back at the office and-” He looked up just in time to see Lucien striding away. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Take over for me, okay! Tell Miss Cooper to fill out the discharge form and she’ll be out of here in no time.” Lucien continued down the hall, towards the stairs by the elevators.

“But!”

“And tell her to keep taking her meds! Thanks, Vincent!” And with that, Lucien Favreau was gone.

-

He took the stairs up two at a time, heart pounding in his ears, not quite sure exactly why his mind was both a mess and numb at the same time. When he got onto their floor, he paused to calm himself and smooth down his shirt, maybe straighten out his white coat and tie too.

_What am I doing?_

He took confident, equal strides to the office, his gaze latching onto the figure that was so unmistakably Fiera Montague (Éponine?). She was alone in the office, sitting quietly at the glass conference table. He walked through the doors and when she turned to face him, he was suddenly breathless.

“Hi.” _Wow, lame Enjolras. Good job._ There was a small smile on her lips and her fingers twitched nervously at her side. He felt his own lips twitch up at an attempt to smile. Neither of them took their eyes off the other.

“Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, uhm, all you reviewers and readers and everyone who's acknowledged the existence of this fic: thank you! Thank you for sticking around even with my odd update schedule!
> 
> Again, as always, if something is unclear please message me. There's that one question that's been asked, something like does everyone remember their past lives and think they're alone or...? The short answer is: you'll see. I've got a plan for those things and characters from before will be coming back (remember Henry Bates?).
> 
> If you follow me on tumblr, I said two things. First: I said that this series will be about 25 chapters. I don't know if that's going to be upheld because I do realise that is a lot of chapters. So it might just go to about 10-15 chapters if anything. Second: I said I'd be putting up two chapters (on Thursday lol) but it is now, obviously not Thursday and this is obviously one chapter. So, what I'm going to do is burn through typing the next chapter today (approximately 2000 words which is what I've been keeping up with, this one is 2231 words if you're wondering) so to keep things moving and I'll try to post that ASAP. I also have a oneshot that is burning to be written, so look out for that. ;)
> 
> Right, my tumblr is stillwritinghallelujah which has all my written stuff. My personal is something else and it's linked on that account.
> 
> Anyway, thank you again and please review! It gives me grins. And if there is a problem, don't hesitate to bring it up (just don't be mean because that's not nice).
> 
> I don't know what else I have to bring up...so I'll see you as soon as I finish that next chapter!


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